


From The Snow

by casey-bee (vands88)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Gen, M/M, Multi, Tumblr: letswritesherlock, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 04:10:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands88/pseuds/casey-bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on The Snow Child by Angela Carter. After Reichenbach, Moriarty (having survived) takes John in, both mourning the loss of Sherlock.  In the dead of winter, they go for a walk, and find an uncanny apparition in the snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From The Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Based on The Snow Child by Angela Carter, which in turn is a take on fairytales such as Snow White. It's a bit strange. And also is bending the rules to the letswritesherlock challenge immensely, but as soon as I heard "fairytale challenge" this is what I wanted to write... Not sure what that says about me!

It is the dead of winter.

Professor James Moriarty tramples the crisp, early morning grass underfoot as he strolls through Regent’s Park. It is early; not yet in the seventh hour of the day and the January sun is scarcely rising behind the mist.

The good Doctor Watson walks with him; silent and obedient. He is good because he knows when has lost and so does not struggle against Jim’s affections any longer. After Reichenbach, Moriarty had allowed John Watson to live, selfishly, because he had needed another who understood his grief. Even now, Moriarty yearns for something more than John’s quiet acceptance. He yearns for beauty, for challenge, for his angel; Sherlock.

The snow falls atop the morning frost. London is veiled in delicate white.

“I wish I had a man as white as snow,” says Moriarty, remembering the pallor of Sherlock’s skin.

They walk on. They find an injured dog, trailing blood in the snow behind it. John wants to help the animal, Moriarty knows, but he is too good to say anything now.

Moriarty thinks of Sherlock’s lips, how they looked even better when abused and flushed. “I wish I had a man as red as blood,” he says.

They walk on again. They find a raven, perched on an iron bench; it reminds Moriarty of Sherlock’s dark wild hair. “I wish I had a man as black as that bird’s feather,” he says.

As soon as Moriarty completes his description, there a man stands on the path; white skin, red mouth, black hair – and naked.

Moriarty inspects the apparition in wonder but John remains at a distance, not trusting the unmoving creature in the snow. For so long he had wished for a miracle but for all the alikeness of Sherlock, there is something deeply unsettling about the doppelganger’s dead eyes. Sherlock ignores Moriarty’s awed ministrations and stares at John raptly. This was not his Sherlock.

John decides to test the apparition. He drops his walking stick in the bush and tells Sherlock to pick it up. But Moriarty answers, “I’ll buy you a new stick” and Sherlock does not move.

John throws his wallet into the frozen pond. “Dive in and fetch it for me,” he says; a challenge, for surely if the creature was not real they would drown.

But Moriarty says, “He should not swim in such weather,” again, halting Sherlock from moving.

John is tired of games. “He is only a ghost. Let us leave him here.”

Moriarty knows this to be false; Sherlock is alive and playing the game as he should. Nevertheless, Moriarty feels sorry for John with no stick and no money. Nearby is a bush of roses, all in flower.

“Pick me one?” John asks Sherlock. Moriarty cannot refuse such a simple request and he allows Sherlock to pick a rose. Sherlock moves with stilted grace; his steps cause no indentation in the snow like a ghost although his hand settles on the bush as if solid.

Sherlock pricks his finger on the thorn. He bleeds; screams; falls.

Moriarty runs to the fallen Sherlock, crying. He kisses him desperately. Sherlock lies still like a snow angel; even this imitation of Sherlock knows that he is on their side. John watches Moriarty abuse the dead creature he had created.

Sherlock begins to melt into the snow-topped grass. Soon there is nothing left but a black feather, a bloodstain, and the rose that had killed him.

John finds his walking stick and wallet beside him.

Moriarty hands John the rose, “This is just another fairytale.”

John drops the flower into the snow, “I wish that they would end.”


End file.
